


Bear Your Fangs And Burn My Wings

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Looks like Sam's not the only Winchester with a soft spot for monsters. Who knew?"</em> - Set in S3, obviously, and spoilers from 3.09 through 3.12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bear Your Fangs And Burn My Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started this summer for a challenge, but the recipient dropped out of the challenge and this kinda took on a porny life of it's own. Anyway, this was one of the pairings she requested and one of her prompts were the lines _I'm an angel bored like hell, you're a devil meaning well_ from the song "You're The Storm", and that's what inspired this fic. I usually prefer S4!Ruby to avoid the dub-con, but, well. Prompt whore and all. 
> 
> Beta'd by painted_pain, who's pretty much worth her weight in gold. ♥ 
> 
> Title is from "You're The Storm" by The Cardigans.

When it happens for the first time, Dean's halfway through his year, just learned that creatures like her are what he's gonna spend the rest of eternity with - fuck, what he's going to become - and figures he might as well make himself familiar.

He doesn't head straight back to Sam and the motel room after she tells him; he gets into his car and heads for nowhere. Just the night, driving, thinking about nothing, for an hour or two. On his way back, he stops at a gas station to take a piss and grab a six pack and some snacks; an excuse in case Sam's awake when he gets back and asks where he's been.

After dealing with nature's call and splashing some cold water in his face, he stands in front of the mirror, staring at his own face. Imagining how it'd look like with black eyes in it or how his whole body'd turn into black smoke.

It's too horrifying to think about that, and he shakes the images off with some effort. Runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, she's standing behind him.

"It's alright to be scared", Ruby says in a quiet, soothing voice so unlike everything he ever heard from her, "If hell isn't supposed to scare you shitless, then what else?"

His reply gets filled with as much venom as he can muster. "Who are you, Doctor Phil? I'm not scared."

She actually has the nerve to smile at that. "Of course you're not. Everyone else would be, but Dean Win - "

"Look, you can quit the sympathetic, cuddly-pet-demon act. I'm not Sam, we both know I'd kill you first chance I get if it wasn't for him. And hey, maybe I should anyway."

That at least makes her drop the overly friendly tone. "All I'm trying to do is offer help. You're no use to Sam if you can't think straight."

"Oh, because helpful is just what you are, huh? A regular boyscout." He snorts and glares at her - or, rather, her reflection on the glass. He doesn't turn.

Ruby opens her mouth as if to say something else, doesn't, and shuts it again. It'd almost look funny if it weren't for the circumstances, but the last thing he feels like is laughing.

She doesn't budge, holds his gaze, head cocked to the side a little and her expression somewhere between understanding and pitiful. Waiting for him to make the next move, he realises, to either prompt her to talk about it after all or tell her to fuck off.

He doesn't do either. Twisted as it is, he's glad she's there. He'd rather bite his tongue off than admit it to anyone one other than himself, but he needs company right now, and he needs someone else's than Sam's.

Favoring a demon's presence above his brother's seems absurd, but Sam's constantly pushing these days. Trying to make Dean admit that he doesn't want to die, that he doesn't want hell. Makes it harder and harder to insist, to remind himself that the only way this can play out is with either of them dead. Of course he doesn't want to go downstairs, who would? But Sam dropping dead instead of him, that he wants even less.

Though, he's a bit of at a loss now, no idea what to do because he's still not exactly keen on a heart to heart with her. And she's still looking at him with that annoying expression, which, reconsidering it, probably is more pitiful than understanding.

Yeah, no doubt about it, he's getting mad. At her, at himself, at everything and nothing. His life, hell just for existing. Dad. Sam.

It's not like Dean regrets selling his soul. Sam will be alive, as it shoud be, and he'll be gone, like he should've been after the car crash. He screwed up, he got Sam killed, he set that straight. Taking the not-so-express train to hell is a whole lot more difficult to deal with than he thought back at the crossroads, is all. Not to mention that he could very well have spent the rest of his life, short as it is, without knowing just how humilating it feels to have a demon pity you.

And she still just. Stands. There.

Before his brain gets an opportunity to cut in he follows a sudden impulse, turns around on his heels to face her. Grabs her hip with his right hand and her neck with his left, and kisses her, hard, no chance to think twice. It's a stupid idea, one hell of a mistake, but right now, he doesn't care. Right now, he doesn't care about anything.

To his own massive surprise, she doesn't shove him away. She kisses him back, greedily, while locking a hand to the waistband of his jeans and dragging him closer.

After that first kiss, he hesitates, unsure how to continue, distantly wondering whether demons do it differently. But as soon as she shoves a hand past his jeans and down his boxers and palms his cock, his brain switches to autopilot. She's just another woman, now, and nobody's to say that Dean Winchester doesn't know how to go on from there.

He doesn't bother with unbuttoning the shirt she's wearing, just tears the buttons off and pushes her bra out of the way practically in the same move. Ruby's quite small compared to him, so to save them both from fumbling face to face in an awkward angle, he bats her hand away from where she's working his cock, not entirely gentle, and grabs her ass with both his hands. She gets the hint, lets herself be pulled up, and he sits her down on the counter.

Leaning back against the very same mirror he just stared at she looks up to him, smiling predatorily, and wiggles a finger. He obediently steps closer, shedding his shirt in the process and pulling his t-shirt over his head, then leans in to let his tongue flick around one of her nipples whilst brushing his palm over the other.

Not long until he gets down on his knees, gets her panties out of the way and goes down on her. It's his favorite part, something he could basically keep doing for hours, and he takes his time licking through her folds while holding her open with his fingers, sucking on her clit, pushing one, then two fingers into her.

All the while, she moans, lays a hand on the back of his neck to keep him down and moves her hips in sync with the movements of his fingers inside her, until her breath finally hitches and her body shudders when she comes.

"Wow, I never thought all the big talk was backed up by actual talent," she whispers and he comes up to level with her again, smirks in response, and kisses her.

She pulls back first, and his eyes are still closed from the kiss when he realises she's gone.

*

He wakes up the next morning with traces of the taste of her cunt still on his tongue and chances are he smells like sex, too. Despite the fact that Sam's already up, that doesn't worry him much. Ever since the deal he's even more of a whore than before; Sam's got to be used to it by now, stopped asking question a while back.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he gets up and shuffles towards the bathroom, prepared for the guilt over last night - making out with a _friggin' demon_ \- to kick in, but that doesn't happen. His head seems to be far too busy with working through the fact that he's going to become one himself.

  
***

  
Only two days later, it happens again. He managed to pull Sam out of his books for a few hours and even talked him into having a few drinks. Not at all with the intention to go back to the motel with his brother after that, if he's honest.

Since he dragged Sam along practically against his will, it's only fair he's making the beer runs, Dean thinks, which got nothing to do with getting the opportunity to choose the drinks and actually come back with anything but beer. Thinking about it, he's only doing Sam a favor, really. The higher the content, the earlier Dean will have reached the proper alcohol level to go ahead and get himself laid despite his foul mood, caring about the impression he's leaving even less than usual, and Sam can return to his books.

When he returns to the table, Sam isn't alone.

"Now look at you," Dean slurs, probably beyond the aforementioned proper level rather than approaching it, but Ruby just turns around to him briefly, eyes him deprecatingly, then continues to talk to Sam.

At that point, Dean's drunken mind starts providing him with flashbacks of licking around her nipples and eating her out, and he figures it'd probably be best for everyone involved if he'd went outside to get some fresh air. Answering Sam's questioning look with a casual wave of his hand that telegraphs something like 'need some deep breaths or gotta puke', he heads through the back door.

*

He stands out there under a street lamp near the bar's dumpster long enough to get half-sober again, but he doesn't dare going back inside in order not to provoke his drunken brain into giving him another slide show. Settles for staying outside, freezing, waiting until he's clear enough to regain the upper hand over his thoughts.

Turns out, Ruby's not that patient.

Big greetings and long introductions apparently aren't her thing. While he still works through the fact that she followed him outside and tries to make sense of that, she gets right to the point by grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and herding him towards the brick wall of the bar, pushing him into it with a hand on his chest. Her mouth is on his before he can even think of something to say, and his jeans and boxers meet his ankles just a heartbeat later.

Well, suits him just fine, he's a man of few words himself.

And by the time she drops to her knees, wraps her lips around his dick and sucks on its head while stroking it with one hand, he decides that conversation's overrated anyway. His head falls back to the wall, eyes closed, and he bites his lips in attempt not to moan when her free hand cups his balls and tugs at them gently.

They end up fucking against said brick wall, positions reversed, him holding her up and her wrapping her legs around his waist.

Not due to a lack of effort on his side, the additional foreplay consisted of nothing else than sloppy kisses. He tried to slip a hand underneath her shirt only to have it bat away and she insisted on stripping out of jeans and panties all by herself, so when he goes in with one fast, hard thrust, then out and in again, she's almost unprepared. Sucks in a breath and hisses, and he stops moving, looks up to her suddenly worried that it might've hurt. Whether it did or not, she tightens the grip of her legs around him, rocking her hips towards him as much as her position allows her to, and he continues.

Neither his blood alcohol level nor the fact that she already almost sucked him off do good things for his stamina, and he comes before she's even close.

Ruby scowls, looks at him like he's something you'd squash under your shoes and as if she's asking herself why she even bothered to lower herself that much, ducks out of underneath him, dresses in a few swift moves and smoothes her hair out. Without so much as deigning him another look she hurries back into the bar, leaving him there with his own jeans still around his ankles and a softening yet still throbbing cock.

Only then he remembers the cold and the fact that he's in a public alley, cleans himself up with an old tissue found in his jacket pocket and pulls his pants back up, but it takes several minutes until his breathing evens out and his ability to form at least somewhat coherent thoughts makes a comeback.

Looks like Sam's not the only Winchester with a soft spot for monsters. Who knew?

  
***

  
The third time it happens, he's really, totally, pass-out drunk. Sam's gone meeting up with yet another psychic-hunter-bookworm-whatever two towns over, trying to save him even more desperately now that Dean admitted to him that he doesn't actually want to go to hell.

Which leaves Dean with a bottle of whiskey, trying - unsuccessfully - to silence the voice of his own demon version in his head, telling him over and over again what a fuck-up he is.

And with Sam's phone, forgotten on the table, holding Ruby's number.

Plastered as he is, calling her sounds like the best idea ever once it formed itself in his head, so that's just what he does. Not that he expects her to actually come over: He's got no doubt that this is all just another mindfuck, that's she's playing him, even though he hasn't figured out the reason yet. But he's past caring, he just wants to think about something else than a creature wearing his own face calling him names. So he's taking chances, quite possibly embarrassing himself to the bones in the process.

Five minutes later she's standing in the motel room, eyeing him in some sort of offended disbelief.

"I can't believed you drunk-dialled me, you dipshit. Exactly how wasted are you?" Her gaze flicks from him to the almost empty bottle on the table and back, and she frowns.

He's lying on the bed fully clothed, looking up to her through his eyelashes, trying for adorable and pretty since even he realises that he won't pull off seductive with that much alcohol in his system, and grins.

"Not too drunk to function, if that's what you wanted to know", he says and points to his crotch.

Another frown, and she half-turns, mumbling a curse under her breath, apparently arguing with herself whether following that sloppy invitation is beneath her dignity or not.

Eventually, she shrugs out of her jacket, pulls her shirt over here head and peels herself out of her jeans.

He considers that a yes and follows her lead.

As soon as they're both naked, she lies down on the bed and he kneels on top of her. Looks her straight into the eye when he cups her small breasts with his hands, brushes a thump over each nipple. Still looks when he shifts a little to bring a hand between her legs, lets two fingers slide through the folds of her cunt, slowly and with cautious pressure. Keeps his gaze on her until her eyes fall shut and she arches her head up, moaning. Then he pushes her further up the bed so that her cunt's level with his head and lets his tongue repeat the motions of his fingers for a bit before he licks across and gently sucks on her clit.

Her moans grow louder, and he smiles a victorious smile. He was raised a caretaker, isn't used to paying much attention to his own needs, and it should probably disturb him that that behaviour even influences his habits in bed. For the most part he's pretty content with giving pleasure, gets off on the girls' reactions. On the expressions on their faces, on sheets getting grabbed and lips being bitten and his name being whispered like a prayer or screamed into his ear; on the knowledge that he, and he alone, makes them let go and fall apart like that.

But a man can only be altruistic for so long, so he eventually rises up, kisses her to let her taste herself while he positions himself anew. He teases, barely even pushes the head inside at first, but goes deeper with each trust. Soon enough, her cunt clenches around him in a steady rhythm that tells him it's somewhat deliberate, and she sets herself upright, clings to him, her every move mirroring his own.

It takes him all the self-restrain he can muster with a bottle of Jack still flooding his system but he manages to control himself until she comes, and they fall back onto the mattress side by side.

He turns away from her almost immediately. What just happened was slow, calm, not slamming or pressing each other into things in an angry haze, not fighting over each kiss. In short: more his style. And somehow that, finally, makes him feel a fierce sting of guilt; if fucking a demon is wrong - and it very much _is_ , for fuck's sake - then doing it slow and vanilla and like with every other woman is pretty much off the charts.

He'll just blame it on the alcohol, he decides. Doing it standing or swinging each other around would've just made him hurl.

*

When she quietly slips out of the bed, he grabs her wrist. "Stay a while", he whispers, and she does, until the they hear Sam turn the key in the keyhole.

Yeah. He's totally going to blame _that_ on the alcohol later, too.

  
***

  
Later that week, she appears in the back seat while he's making a morning run for coffee and breakfast, asking him if he's in the mood for a bit of a detour.

Needless to say, he is. And he's got a point to prove, though to her or to himself, he's not sure. Last time was a glitch. This thing, between them, it's not like that. It's not feelings, it's letting off steam, and that's not supposed to be sweet or slow or gentle.

As soon as he pulled the Impala over on a quiet side road, he's out of the car, rounds it, and slams her against its side the moment she steps out as well.

She looks up at him, something in her expression he can't quite identify. "Romance isn't really your forte, now is it?"

"And that became clear to you just now?" He raises an eyebrow and glares down at her. "Didn't exactly get the impression you're in it for roses and poems either."

Her whispered response sounds an awful lot like "Wow, touchy", but since she also brings a hand to his crotch and squeezes gently he's willing to let that slide.

They kiss, deep and rough and accompanied by him tangling a hand up in her hair to hold her in place. He only breaks it to unbutton her jeans and push them down and then yank her panties out of the way, which she takes as her cue to shrug his jacket and shirt off his shoulders -

That's when they both hear a crackling sound in the woods nearby.

After years of sleeping out in the woods during hunts, he just quickly turns around, scans the area and indentifies the source of the sound as a bird going after something it saw on the ground, but she freezes in place as if she's expecting a threat. Just when he turns back to face her again her eyes turn black for a moment, and he pulls back, horrified.

It clearly kills the mood, and they both start awkwardly collecting the clothes they already got out of. She avoids his eyes, and if he didn't know better, he'd identify the look on her face as hurt. Which doesn't make sense, unless she's not actually playing him. Unless she's caught aback by all of this - by them - just as much as he is.

It's that moment when he realises that this is a dance neither of them knows the right moves to. And he's not sure if he wants to learn them.

  
***

  
The night after that special Wednesday, the first actual Wednesday after way too many Tuesdays for Sam, Dean watches his brother sleep. Wonders if Sam's expression really hardened, if he really looks older somehow, or if that's just his imagination.

For the past few months, Dean thought that he corrected his failure by selling his soul, bringing Sam back to life. Probably also by taking himself out of the equation. Sam wouldn't have left Stanford if Dean hadn't come running to drag him back into a life that either kills you or breaks you and then spits you out, telling himself that he needed Sam to get Dad back and that his brother was better off with Dean looking out for him anyway.

And man, did _that_ backfire.

Sam would never have lost the woman he loved, never have felt the need to revenge her death, never have ended up with a knife in his back, lifeless in the cold mud, if Dean had bit the bullet and left him alone. Didn't do Dad much good, either.

Yellow Eyes might've killed Jess, but Dean presented him with the opportunity. So, Sam's death? His mistake, made in the minute he showed up in California, and his to set straight. Part of him even thought that Sam would just pack up after he went downstairs and drive right back to Stanford, and until now it never occurred to him how stupid that was. Sam's not going to get rid of an obstacle that kept him from living his life, he's going to lose a brother. And Winchesters don't tend to take the loss of a family member lightly, Dean's a prime example for that himself.

It's just now that he sees that he's also failing Sam by leaving again, and that hurts more than he can stand because it looks like he can't correct that one. He's navigated them into a dead end and Sam's going to have to live with the fallout.

He allows himself one more glance over the sleeping figure on the other bed, then he forces those thoughts into the same box they came from, clears his throat, and gets out of the bed. Grabbing the car keys from the counter, he heads out.

*

Ruby leaning against the Impala's frame is about the least thing he expected to see when he steps out into the parking lot, but he doesn't mind; he can settle for that, too. Driving, fucking, one coping mechanism is as good as the other. All that matters is that he gets his mind off dying and leaving Sam behind, and he's more than willing to take whatever distraction he can get.

Still, he can't help wondering, and has to ask, "Why are you here?"

She cocks her head to the side. "Should I draw you a picture?"

"That's not what I mean, even though I'm beginning to feel stalked." He accompanies that with a humorless smile and earns himself an annoyed glare from her; she's even folding her arms across her chest to drive the point home.

Getting serious again, he continues. "What's in it for you, exactly?"

"Dean, we already had that conversation."

There are several things to reply to that, why Sam, what's her agenda, how she managed to keep her human side alive anyway, how's that even possible, but he finds himself suddenly not caring anymore. He's done talking for tonight, done _thinking_ , unlocks the Impala's rear door and gestures towards the backseat.

Ruby glares at him some more, which he ignores, but she eventually climbs into the car and gets out of jeans and underwear. His own jeans and boxers go down and what follows is somewhat automatic, like going through the motions: she strokes his cock, he fumbles between her legs for a bit to get her ready, then pushes inside. Thrust, push, pull. It's better for her, apparently, she begins to moan and scrape her fingernails down his back and he doesn't figure her for the type who fakes that, but he's not really into it.

She comes, he doesn't, but he keeps moving inside of her regardless. Keeps her from a comedown with a put-on grin on his face and makes her come again before he breaks down on top of her. It's not physical exhaustion as much as its emotional counterpart, and he presses his face to the crook of her neck and holds on to her with all he's got.

There are no tears, though. He wouldn't allow himself to cry even if he was alone.

***

  
It ends as abruptly as it began.

In a police station in Monument, Colorado, standing between a lovely, innocent virgin, the demon he's been fucking and who argues to kill said virgin for all their sakes and his brother who's totally in on that, it hits him like a train. As if, out of the blue, his brain catches up with what his dick's been doing the last few weeks.

She's a demon; a demon that's acting much more human than any he ever met, but a demon nonetheless. That, of course, he knew all along. But he's not, not yet anyway, and if he's really bound to become one downstairs? All the more reason to clutch his humanity tight for as long as he's still upstairs.

Hell can wait. He's got little enough time left on this earth, and he's not going to waste any more of it by playing with the very same fire that he's going to burn in eventually.

And, by the way, nobody's going to kill any virgins as long as he's around. Especially not Sam.

*

This time, it's her who stands in front of a mirror in a public bathroom, looking at her own reflection and asking it questions she doesn't have the answers to. This time, it's him appearing behind her, though not out of thin air and not quite as unexpected. And this time, it's her who's turning around on her heels to kiss him.

But he's not kissing her back.

She takes a few steps back, staring at him with a startled look on her face, before it dawns to her. "It's over, isn't it?"

For a long minute, he just stares right back, then swallows hard. "Yes. Whatever it was, it's over."

He averts his eyes, looking down on the ground, and she turns around and leaves.


End file.
